The Faded Alibi
The wisteria was dead. Or at least, that is what the neighbors said. They pointed their coffee-stained fingers at the brown, brittle vines strangled around our porch and shook their heads. They said it was a sign. They said houses die when the flowers die. I didn’t care. I was busy with my work. My work was not a job. It was a compulsion. I was a detective of the unseen, a hunter of the...
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